


All Not Quite Legitimate

by polysyndeta



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 22:23:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4075972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polysyndeta/pseuds/polysyndeta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you take a step back and hear your life like it's being narrated by some stand-up comic doing their best Serious Voice for Children In Need, only Children In Need starts before the watershed and tends not to run stories like: <i>This is Gary.  Gary's being pimped out by his stepdad. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	All Not Quite Legitimate

**Author's Note:**

> I chose not to tag this, but: this is a short story about a seventeen-year-old being coerced into sex work by his abusive stepfather and carries all the warnings that might imply.
> 
> Title from the Arctic Monkeys' '[When The Sun Goes Down](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yUatH8zI6Qc)'.

When Dean first drops you off at the other end of Smith Street - like he's scared to be queer by association - you're just seventeen, freshly crashed out of Marines, and isn't there just some bleak fucking irony to the fact that you let him do this to you when you know a dozen ways to kill him that you didn't four short months ago. 

The truth of it is, though, that you've already given him your body in every other way that matters.

The lightness on your feet that had your coach seeing European junior championships and the Olympics - maybe 2012 if London beat out Paris, wouldn't that be exciting, local lad done good - but had Dean ordering you over security barriers and up drainpipes to high unlocked windows. The light deft touch on a pack of cards when you got into magic tricks one wet summer, only Dean saw hands that could dip into some old granny's pocket and slip out with her food budget or her electricity top-up. 

And now he sees you stepping out of the shower with a towel around your waist, the last scraps of puppy fat trimmed off your body by endless fucking drills and days of crawling around the Devon countryside, and he sees a use for that as well.

Never let it be said he ain't pragmatic, your stepdad.

Sometimes you take a step back and hear your life like it's being narrated by some stand-up comic doing their best Serious Voice for Children In Need, only Children In Need starts before the watershed and tends not to run stories like: _This is Gary. Gary's being pimped out by his stepdad. Gary got fucked in the arse the first time for thirty-five pounds and a pack of Benson & Hedges._

This isn't as bad as the rest of all the shit that's become the price of admission for living in your own fucking home. 

You're not hurting anyone else, doing this. 

You'd stop if you thought it would just be you he'd be angry at. Only Dean's anger is as indiscriminate as any rabid animal's, and he takes it out on whoever's closest and that's usually your mum. So, never mind.

For a while it's the kind of sordid predictability that you see a lot on gritty and worthy (but ever-so-slightly voyeuristic) Channel 4 crime drama. Quick, messy handjobs in the passenger seat of a Mondeo with child seats strapped in the back. Sucking cock in the nearest Gent's. Sometimes - _hey, big spender_ \- getting bent over and fucked in a Travelodge. Your painfully middle-class Year Eleven form tutor - who _begged_ you to do your A-Levels and go to uni, who couldn't begin to understand what appeal the Royal Marines Commandos held for you - rolls up in his ancient Renault Clio one night and he picks you up in what is obviously meant to be some act of grandiose rescue. At first. But - after, really, surprisingly little fretting on his part - you spend the morning swilling the last of his jizz out of your mouth. Nobody's a fuckin' gentleman any more, are they.

You don't really know what a pimp is meant to do, but you have a vague idea they're meant to protect their talent. Dean doesn't. You limp in one night, bruised and bleeding, and he takes his percentage and calls you a cunt for letting yourself get beat up.

Still, like all the shitty pastimes he makes you take up, you get good at it. You're not stupid. You get off the street corner and go online. Find someone who knows someone who's taking a photography course to do some decent pictures of you, someone who'll take a ton to not bat an eye when you get your cock out or roll over and pull your arsecheeks open for the camera. It's not like you've got any shame any more, and your virtue was gone a long time before you took a handful of crumpled notes to get broken in.

Being a _male escort_ brings a slightly more upmarket (you can't say _better_ ) class of clientele. Now there's fewer dodgy locals and more businessmen down from the North or in from some rural backwater for a national conference on - collar stiffeners or ball bearings or whatthefuckever - looking for a bit of rough. Letting you in with a white tan line round their ring finger, like you give a shit. It's a little bit safer because you can vet them first, or try to, and it's a little more dangerous because _obviously_ you're out-calls only and you're constantly in environments they control. Eventually you think you'll maybe get fished out of the Thames, without your skin or with a few steaks cut out of your thighs, and won't Dean be fucking disappointed that he missed the opportunity to flog _that_ to the highest bidder an' all.

On the upside - speaking of Dean - he has no idea how much more you can charge as a _male escort_ and his cut stays the same quantitatively but proportionally is a fuck of a lot lower. You spend your cut on trainers and weed.

You learn to shave the rougher edges off. Leave the caps and polos at home, buy a couple of plain T-shirts and even a button-up or two to wear over your jeans. Don't show up looking like you're there to rob their wallet.

Sometimes they don't even want to fuck. There's one guy you see a few times - pink striped shirt with a white collar, mid-forties, City banker type - who pays you full whack just to get naked and wank while he watches. It's...weirdly intimate, actually. More intimate than being fucked, somehow, the way you sprawl on the bed with your knees hitched up and your fingers in your arse. At least when there's a john with your ankles on his shoulders and his dick inside you its about _him_ , about his pleasure. Maybe this is too - you can hear him frantically tugging at himself in the bathroom afterwards - but it doesn't feel that way when you're coming all over your abs and listening to him breathe heavy and low. You don't know what his problem is - he's not fat or ugly or anything - but he doesn't like touching you and won't let you touch him and you're not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, are you.

You learn about upselling from car dealerships and salesmen in Currys. Some punters just don't know they want what you've got until you put it out there. He'll be fumbling for the lube and rubber while you push your back into a lazy arch, _if you wanna spank me, it's extra_ and watch him go after his coat pockets instead. Another few notes Dean's never gonna know about.

You don't tell Mum where you go at night (because of course you don't) but you reckon Dean's told her you've got a girlfriend or a night shift or both, because she looks so fucking _happy_ when you go out dressed nice with your hair combed. She's seven months pregnant and you can't even look at it, the shackle in her womb that's going to chain her to Dean forever.

You'd thought that the kinky ones would be the worst. The violent shitheads who think that because they've paid for you they _own_ you, the ones who want to hear you cry, who let you pick a safeword just so they can ignore it. And they _are_ shit, and after one deeply unpleasant evening you stop letting anyone tie you down, but they aren't the worst. The worst are the ones who _pity_ you. They pay you - not fucking enough - to sit and watch them wring their hands and clutch their pearls because you're _still so young_ and you're _selling your innocence_ like you've ever been innocent. _You seem like a smart lad, you've got so much potential_ and you think you'd prefer a sharp backhand across the jaw because at least there's an honesty in that.

You think the chauffeur is one of those, at first. He's definitely not your usual fare. Sharp double-breasted suit, striped tie, not a hair (dark brown, threads of grey at the temples) out of place. Pulls up in front of the hotel to meet you behind the wheel of a private cab with lacquered wood detailing and leather seats. Asks you if you've eaten, like you're a fucking street urchin. When you tell him the truth for God knows what reason, he asks you where you want to eat and you curl your lip and say _KFC_ , like a prick. You think this'll be enough to repel him, but half an hour later you're sitting in a car park sharing a Bargain Bucket. Fucking surreal. He lets you have both the little foil-wrapped wipes they threw in the bag and (distractingly) sucks the grease off his fingers before wiping his hands on the handkerchief you're not at all surprised he has.

He pays you for the night, at eleven PM. You ask, sneering, what's to stop you going back out and picking up another fare. You expect him to get all wounded over your rejection of his selfless act of charity, and now he _does_ surprise you: he shrugs, and says _nothing at all._

Then he offers you a lift home and you accept, and a few years later he offers again, on the steps outside Holborn police station.

**Author's Note:**

> So this wasn't something I 'wanted to write' so much as something I 'had to exorcise', erk. Left open-ended I know, but this is just a one-shot. Returning to Triumvirate soon!


End file.
